


survivors of the 16th

by honeydowo



Series: strawberry lemonade (and things will be okay again) [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Child Neglect, Coping, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Happy Ending, Family Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Violence, Other, Psychological Trauma, Redemption, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29087280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeydowo/pseuds/honeydowo
Summary: Osowiec, Manberg.(Gas and explosions - it always ends in bloodied lungs and the death of a dream.)With blood and smoke, the sound of gunfire and a story not yet finished, the dead man's march continues.Osowiec, Manberg.(Wilbur keeps on marching on, then and again.)-Wilbur gets resurrected. The world has not stopped turning.
Relationships: Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: strawberry lemonade (and things will be okay again) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2110977
Comments: 11
Kudos: 115





	survivors of the 16th

**Author's Note:**

> this is a pretty heavy story, with themes of psychological abuse, manipulation, neglect and a lot of other things.  
> it turns out ok in the end, but if stuff like that upsets you sit this one out!

_I saw it with my cheek in the dirt_

_I couldn't move underneath the dark_

_But at least I finally found it_

_Cried out a creak and opened_

_To show me what's beyond it_

_A hopeless violence_

_I named it love_

**_-Door, Mitski_ **

  
  
  


There are many versions of you.

The Wilbur who was, the Wilbur who will one day be again, and in between, you, phantom motions and feelings and touches, nothing ever more corporeal than a soft summer's breeze. 

_(You've never seen him cry before. It's a strange thought to have, here now, with your arms spread open and destruction nipping at your heels. You can't quite hear what you're saying over the ringing in your ears, can't quite make out the pleas for something you don't know if he can give._

_But there's tears in his eyes and a heaviness in your chest and the iron grip of destiny tearing at your thoughts; and you know what you have to do._

_You wonder if you'll miss this world._

_-there was a lot to fight for, once, a lot to hold on to: tommy's laughter and tubbo's loyalty, your son and a flag rising into the sky. you know you can never have that again-_

_Phil screams something guttural- words you can't discern over memories, the faint sound of mellohi warping your thoughts. Dreams shattering and nations falling, father, can't you do this?_

_The sword strikes you somewhere lethal. It hurts a little, under blackened fingertips and cruel smiles, and you sink to the ground with a requiem stuck on your tongue._

_Phil holds you close, and his tears wash away the gunpowder from your skin._

_And that's how you die. In your fathers arms, loved at last.)_

The second time it happens, you recite the same words as before, as a prayer into the darkening sky.

Behind you, Phil draws his sword.

(He's shaking. You can't remember why.) 

_(Nobody holds you, this time. You think that's a little sad, but ah well, it seems that few ever cared for you enough to do anything of the sort, so it was to be expected, in a way._

_When the world finally fades, there's void._

_The darkness around you twitches, flickers through scenes you can barely remember, a caravan in the morning sun, a pathway and loud laughter, a ravine and an itching coldness-_

_You're sitting at a kitchen table. The golden sun of a new morning filters through the window and throws little glowing lines onto the wood. You trace them with your finger, the hint of a song on your lips._

_It's familiar, this place, as much as Phil's flinches whenever he looks at your chest, at where you still bleed, or Techno's annoyance with your pestering._

_It's as familiar as your family itself, but that thought aches, so you discard it again._

_Across from you sit two people._

_"So you finally came!", one croons, "Did they get sick of you too?"_

_Did they? You don't think so, but that might be just another thought you'd lost. You open your mouth to answer, but can't seem to form any words over the blood that starts pouring out of your mouth, your nose, even your ears as you desperately try to stop it from hitting the table, the floor, the picture in the far corner._

_I can't taint this place too, you think in between heaving breaths, please, don't let me ruin this too-!_

_A single droplet of blood splatters on the table._

_"You know, they did the same to me. Got rid of me because they were sick of playing with me, but I showed them and I can do it again!", he yells, almost playfully, into the emptiness of the ravine._

_But his eyes are empty and his fingertips black and there's a despondency there you can't hope to embrace, a hopelessness too far gone for you to remember._

_He looks like you, but you're not him._

_You flicker desperately against the onslaught of blood, never more corporeal than a butterfly's fleeting touch and when he reaches for you, you burn his hand and his ideals back into the far corner of the kitchen table, where he can never reach anything again._

_The bleeding seizes._

_The other one smiles at you gently, and it's hot in the caravan, with everyone sleeping inside, uniforms still on. It's the dawn of a new nation, the day after revolution - a dream of hope and a blooming future._

_"I know you want to be back here", he says softly, "Back where everything was still okay."_

_You don't know if that's true, but looking at your son's peaceful face and how he holds onto you in sleep, you can't help but long for it, just for a second._

_"It's okay, you can go back. Just let me help you! I built this nation, and I can bring it back, and everything will be okay again."_

_Over in the far right corner, Tommy and Tubbo are clinging to each other in their sleep, foreheads pressed together and legs intertwined, and you think of your Tommy - shaking and angry and hopeless and so endlessly old, behind those blue eyes._

_You think of Technoblade and anarchy, and of what it means to bring something that was dead once back._

_And you realize you cannot return to this._

_-There's a reason things are dead, Ranboo echoes, somewhere far off, a conversation you've never heard-_

_He doesn't try to reach for you, but you still seat him at the opposite end of the kitchen table, a little gentler this time. It's fine to rest, you try to say, You can sit now, it's fine. I'll fix it._

_On the wall, there's an old picture - a little wrinkled, edges yellow from old touches. It shows everyone; Techno, Tommy, Phil and you, golden crowns and blinding smiles - and suddenly it's so obvious what you need to do._

_Your guitar rests on the wall, gathering dust. You know who you need to be._

_The sun hits your back and-_

_Wilbur walks out the door, into the light.)_

\---

Head held high, Wilbur had embraced death.

Now, he shall embrace life - unsure and shaking, but willing nonetheless. 

\--- 

It's a lot to see Phil again.

Wilbur feels the tendrils of the past snake around his throat and his hands shake as echoed words force their way back up- 

_Kill me Phil, kill me, they all want you to do it, kill me-_

"Will", his father sighs, and Wilbur sinks into his embrace without the cool memory of steel plunged into his body.

And that's that.

\---

_Everything hurts._

_Your chest tears itself open again and you can feel your ribs cracking under the pressure of the explosion and there's cold blood on your hands and-_

_You're sitting at a kitchen table._

_"Did you forget, Wilbur?", the person opposite you says, almost delighted._

_He's not you, this time, never really has been - yet he's here, and he's talking and everything hurts so goddamn much._

_"C'mon now, that's not the Wilbur I know. I mean, just look at this!"_

_Explosions and gunpowder and insane laughter--_ _no, no , no that's not you, that's not you, no-_

_"Geez, relax! I was just trying to help! Well, if that's not doing it…"_

_Techno laughs as you mess up your footing yet again, and he knocks the training sword out of your hands playfully/_

_A dark ravine and words of iron and blood spit at the feet of your brother: I know you were never on my side, all you want is war, and you're nothing but the cogs in its machine/_

_Tommy laughs when you slip bad words into the christmas songs Phil always has you sing under the tree, and you reach out to ruffle his hair, smiling/_

_Tommy's eyes are hardened by bloodshed and loss and a love that's dying and you see his fear and make it into your weapon: You'll never be president, and, You're scared, and your brother flinches from your touch/_

_You're out watching the stars, on the field next to your house - Techno is telling you something about Aries, and you can almost trace the constellations as little freckles on Tommy's sleeping face, resting at your side/_

_It's dark and there's a tower and you watch your brother fall, fall, fall and you decide to forget/_

_Techno screams something angry at you, and you watch as the wood of your guitar splinters against the living room's wall and bloody red eyes and when you start crying Phil is there to dry your tears and when you wake up the next morning, there's a new guitar sitting next to your bed, yet untouched/_

_"I still feel things!", you scream, against the rain burning your skin and the anger tearing apart your thoughts, "I know I'm the comedic relief in all of your stories, but I still feel_ **_this_ ** _"! and everything's gone, everything's lost and you don't want to be here anymore and Phil-_

_Phil turns his back on you;_

_"Maybe someday you'll understand."_

_And he leaves./_

_Tommy in the wreckage, and Ranboo in the place he'd carved himself out. Tommy in exile and Dream by his side, Tommy in exile and Dream twisting the story until there's a tower and-_

_Dream._

_"See, now you've got it!", the man across from you cheers loudly, "Go, Wilbur. Fix your messes. Maybe mine too, while you're at it."_

_A still memory of Tubbo strikes you, and you think there's something deprecating in your opposite's smile._

_"It's fine.", you say instead, "You're okay. You don't need to be here anymore. I'll fix it, okay?"_

_And the other doesn't quite fade, but the black of his suit fades into a lighter shade of blue and you know things will get better._

_You step through the door._

\---

There's a lot to be said about Wilbur, all the things he's been, all the roles he's played on the grande stage of life.

But never before has he been a coward.

\---

Phil hands him a book, as soon as he wakes up, and tells Wilbur to write down everything he remembers.

Wilbur puts pen to feather, and comes to a stuttering halt.

What does he remember? 

_Phantom feelings at a doorway-_

No, no, no he doesn't remember that. He doesn't no, no he can't because that would make him just as bad as- 

_The chords of an old song._

And oh, how he remembers, how he aches, but the past mustn't be allowed into the future, and the future can never touch the past. All that can be touched, morphed into a different shape is the present.

Wilbur is done with the past.

(And as such, he remembers.) 

(And as such, he lets his anger fester.) 

\---

It's strange, to look into the mirror again - to see himself, corporeal, hurting and bloodied, but here. 

It's the same brown curls, same soft eyes, same fingers and scars.

But he's not…. _Wilbur_ , anymore, not the one they had wanted, revolutionary and a leader, but neither the glowing red of a new dawn and smell of gunpowder again.

Because this Wilbur remembers. 

This Wilbur knows.

The mirror does not crack under the force of his stare, nor does the earth shake with his steps - but the air is humming with a new energy, and there's things to be done.

Wilbur has always been ready to burn anything to ashes for his family.

\--- 

_"Don't forget", a familiar voice whispers in your dreams, "Don't forget, don't forget because forgetting is giving in and you cannot give in again. Live, live, remember and resist."_

\--- 

But remembering is hard, because when Wilbur steps into the ruins of L'Manberg, a dark part of himself rejoices at the vision of violence. 

Remembering is hard, because he feels the sing song of fire burning his fingertips with an ashen desire whenever he sees a stray piece of TNT.

Remembering is hard, because it paints his father as the villain of the story.

\---

Everything is smoking and ashen and grey, blackened from explosions and death and washed away by rain - there's no such thing as good and evil in this storm, no exceptions made for anyone.

Sharp edges of stone cut into Wilbur's coat as he walks among the wreckage, no longer a dead thing amongst the living, but a vision of life amongst the dead.

Because now, L'Manberg remains as nothing but a memory, quickly fading.

Phil let's him go into the ruins warily and with a sword in hand, as if waiting for the madness of another to take root again, the turning point in a song, climax before demise - the crescendo of hopelessness.

But no insane laughter bubbles out of his son's throat, no memory of soot taints his hands, now softened by death.

He simply walks, takes in the wreckage - the wanderer above the sea of fog, counting the casualties.

Wilbur looks into craters and still burning wood and wonders where the dream of his nation has gone now, that longing for freedom, the invincible momentum of change. 

The scorched wood holds no answers, and no visions of greatness swim in the puddles of darkened blood - Wilbur wanders, and catches his mind sticking to crumbling stone and broken shields.

A dream of peace shattered by war.

It's ironic, almost, in the way a tragedy chokes the bubbling laughter in your throat with sadness - opposites, a world in dualism, and the grayscale of death tainting his heart an indecisive shade of grey. 

Freedom, war ; rebellion, hopelessness.

Over it all stands a single person, lazily flicking chess piece after chess piece off the table - pawns in a game of kings and queens are disposable, after all. And countries are nothing but executioners of their rulers.

Dream. 

He's the reason, Wilbur thinks, He's the cause. 

But it doesn't matter now.

Because with the death of a nation had come the death of a brother, the death of a family - Techno betrays Tommy. Tommy betrays Techno. Does it matter, in the end? 

All Wilbur knows is that he remembers the exile, and his father had just left his little brother to join an alliance with his… abuser? manipulator? 

All Wilbur knows is that he needs to find his little brother, and that there are conversations to be had about a great deal of things.

\---

There are things even Wilbur struggles with - big, incomprehensible things _(as grief and the colour blue)_ and things the size of paper cuts in the grandness of the universe _(as the loss of nation, and a family.)_

And oh, how he struggles - there's no words for the grief of seeing his nation flung apart by the butterfly wing's hurricane his actions have caused, no strings to pluck the vision of his brother, dead amongst the destruction from his mind, no chord progression to bring back the past.

When he calls out Tommy's name, the ravines and craters of what once was a home echo it back, and hopelessness begins to settle.

But most things are found where they're least expected - so Wilbur heads for the embassy, the last string tying his little brother to life.

\---

There are a lot of things to be said about the embassy - about its significance, its history or its meaning, but none are of importance for the here and now, for this story. 

Wilbur knows this, yet can't help but hear the echoing ringing of an explosion in his ears, the deja-vu feeling of heat licking at his feet and a scream tearing at his throat - the glowing of an age-old fire in the windows-

Wilbur breaths. It's torch light. Just torch light.

Minuscule signs of life and the memories of war, is he too late already? 

Destruction speaks of death, half dead crops sing of abandonment.

Torch light in the windows.

_(Schrödinger's cat: Neither dead or alive, until Wilbur opens the door.)_

\---

Above all, Phil had raised them to survive.

The world is cruel in its nonchalance, and war does not care for innocence - revolutions devour their own children, after all.

His lessons chime like bells in Wilbur's mind, the sort of knowledge one can never really forget, as a fire never burning out.

_(Always lock your doors - mobs are smarter than they seem.)_

Wilbur pushes against Tommy's door experimentally, expecting the resistance of a bookshelf to block his attempt, and instead stumbles directly into the hut Tommy calls his home - it's barren and lackluster, telling the story of a life with no strings attached; being able to leave everything behind in a heartbeat.

_(Nature is cruel. Never let the cold get a hold of you - even a campfire goes a long way.)_

L'Manberg is a smoking crater, and the heat from the explosions still simmers lowly beneath Wilbur's skin.

Compared to the chill of the stone walls in Tommy's house, Wilbur feels split apart - a part of him aches to turn back to the craters and rejoice at the senseless violence, but the other hears the soft breathing from the next room and marvels at the vivacity of the sound.

The cold is not one of forgetfulness, nor one of stupidity - it's calculated, just cold enough to make Wilbur's fingertips tingle with uneasy remembrance. 

But there's no use contemplating coldness, not when there's the rest of the house to explore, a brother to find.

_(Always sleep with a weapon, and never let anyone near you while you rest. Sleep makes you vulnerable. Remember that.)_

The bedroom is small and cramped.

There's a jukebox, and a little bench - Wilbur can barely distinguish Tubbo's brown hair from under the flimsy comforter wrapped around him. Tommy lay facing away from his friend, slightly curled in on himself- 

Wilbur feels his knees give out under him, and harshly meet the floor - the noise is sickening, yet he is ever the more deaf to it; Mellohi jumbles his thoughts into incomprehensible snippets of sound, and he sees a bench in the sunset and a walled off country and a pathway stained by blood and-

Tommy is alive. Tommy is alive! 

_(There are tears dropping onto the stone floor and Wilbur's face aches but his brother is alive, and he doesn't notice the blue stains his grief leaves.)_

And Wilbur wonders how his little brother could forget the very things meant to keep him alive, wonders when Phil's rules became meaningless to him - and questions what it says about him, that his little brother wants to die.

\---

"Tommy", Wilbur whispers, "Tommy?" 

Tommy turns, ever restless, even in his sleep. 

"Go away Ghostbur... I don't wanna talk..." 

Wilbur chokes on a thousand words in that second, a thousand little memories in the microcosm of his brain and wonders, _What can be said to remedy the destruction of innocence? What can bring back a lost childhood?_

Tommy sits up at the noise, and turns to face him.

"Ghostbur, are you-" 

His face lights up with something like recognition, the undertone of hopelessness swallowing it up in a tidal wave - disbelief darkening his eyes and amplifying the bruises on his body.

"No- no fucking way- Great! I've fucking lost it! Hallucinating my dead brother and shit! No, no absolutely not. I'm going back to sleep. Fuck you, bitch." 

"You're not hallucinating me.", Wilbur says slowly. "I'm here. Phil revived me."

Very slowly, as if approaching a spooked deer, Wilbur steps towards Tommy and ever so gently, runs his finger through his brother's hair.

The bone crushing hug Wilbur is enveloped in a few seconds later doesn't deter him from noticing the wet patch on his shoulder growing ever larger by the second.

\---

_"How could you have lost this?", the version of you with hopeful eyes speaks, "How could you have done this to them?"_

_"Not all is lost yet", something echoes, "Not all that is broken is irreparable. Breathe, live, remember, fix what is yours to hold again."_

\---

Death is like a tube station.

There's noise around you that can't be placed, a million of could-be conversations passing you in snippets, words you've spoken echoing through endless winding tunnels, no rhyme or reason but the endless wait for a train that will never come.

Sitting rooted in place as you watch everyone move on - slowly, at first, almost no one boards the first train, and the most important ones may remain for eternity, but the station clears out after a while. 

Less words echo, less feelings reach you over the sound of screeching wheels, and all turns darker in time; a closing, perhaps, and boarding the last train is almost peaceful.

It carries you out from under the ground and the grey curtain of this world falls away, turning everything into thin silver glass; and then white shores, a far green country under a swift sunrise.

Death is like a tube station; a temporary halt in a never ending path of closure. 

Holding Tommy is nothing like death, although the aching in Wilbur's chest resembles the feeling of bleeding endlessly into the cold stone floor.

Holding Tommy is like life in so many ways Wilbur hasn't thought to feel before; knees pressed against the floor and head turned towards the ceiling as if in prayer, everything turns into a perfect blur of emotions - memories turned colours in the first real breath of a newborn man.

Wilbur holds his brother, and understands what it means to be alive.

"I'm so sorry", Tommy sobs, "I should've done better, please Wilbur, I'm so sorry, please don't leave, I tried to convince Dream to just do it to me instead, you have to believe me, you died for L'Manberg and I ruined it, I'm so sorry-" 

Dream.

Wilbur feels his hold on Tommy tighten minutely. 

And in a flurry of motions blurring together as one, Tommy has his items placed on the floor and is desperately trying to wipe his eyes clean off tears.

Something in Wilbur hardens at the sight - this is not his brother, vivacious and loud, the moment just before the Spitfire leaps into the air, this is a broken thing, no gold to seal the cracks.

And Wilbur's lived through lava and oceans and explosions, embraced death and came back - yet nothing can compare to this early morning in his brother's house, finally realizing how broken the world can really be.

The vase slips off the table, and shatters into a million brilliant pieces onto the ground. They shine like diamonds, the glassy splinters, as Tommy's crystalline tears, yet cut sharp when touched.

Harsh edges, soft sweaters.

Wilbur begins to understand.

"Tommy…", Wilbur says softly, "This is not your fault." 

He carefully pushes the items back towards his brother, who quickly blinks to keep the tears at bay - a flood behind stone gates, thrashing just out of eyesight.

"I know they told you a lot of things, Tommy, and I need you to know that none of that's true. You're a child, you don't need to be taught lessons in pain and war - you should be able to make mistakes without fear of losing something important. None of it's your fault. It's more _my_ fault than anything, and I hope you can one day understand that. You're the only thing that I died for." 

_I will make sure you get to be a child again_ , goes unspoken somewhere in there, between rays of early grey sunlight and breath coming in hitching sobs - _and I hope you can forgive me_ follows with tear tracks on stone floors and the rustling of leaves.

"I know I'm one of the people that hurt you too, Tommy, and I won't pretend I wasn't and I don't know what to say to you to make you understand I didn't mean the things I said and I'm so, so sorry but- I hope one day you can forgive me. It doesn't have to be now, or _ever_ , but I love you, and I want you to be okay." 

Something in Tommy breaks at the words, something just slightly left off disbelief, and the resounding crack echoes through his lungs, reverberates in his ribcage - it paints his face the gold of a new day, a new beginning. Not all is forgiven, but all wounds heal with time and right now Wilbur is back, and that's a miracle turning the monochrome of the world into something slightly reminiscent of colour again.

This time, Tommy does not try to hold back the tears.

And when he falls asleep on Wilbur's shoulder, Wilbur tucks him back under the covers next to Tubbo, still snoring softly.

\--- 

Monochrome features turn the world into a grayscale resembling death, and Wilbur sees it everywhere, taunting and mocking and inviting, just one step closer to the edge to be nothing again - no responsibilities in endless voids. 

Kaleidoscopic drops of color turn his vision into a masterpiece of artistic nonsense, Tubbo and Tommy sleeping on their bench - centrepiece, and Wilbur knows the pull on his soul is not one of fire, but protection.

Monochrome rainbows; a lesson in impossibility.

_(As coming back from the dead. As fixing everything.)_

Yet there's no such thing as impossibility, merely the edge of improbability, never coming near the dead-end of actual impossibilities.

_(Improbability. Happiness. Do they correlate?)_

Kaleidoscopes, impossibility, and Tubbo awakes when it's almost noon.

His apologies are almost as profuse as Tommy's, and the fear in his eyes shows the reflection of a man in a torn trench coat, dynamite in hand. 

Wilbur hates himself for making Tubbo think he's the one responsible, hates this world for placing such a burden on a child, but most of all hates Dream for twisting the dark thoughts of the new president into tangible fears, as TNT raining from the sky and the death of a friend.

Wilbur hugs him, and redemption seeps from the coat of his ragged clothes, forgiveness sewed into buttons of a green shirt.

They'll be okay.

"What are we supposed to do now?", Tubbo asks eventually.

"Well, I don't know. What do you want to do?"

Tubbo's eyes light up, and Wilbur savours the feeling of warmth at his smile even if just allowing Tubbo to voice his thoughts should not elicit such a response.

A dream of quiet farmhouses and early morning watching the sunset to music later, Wilbur knows that L'Manberg must be left behind, and that there's another person they must get beforehand.

The journey to the Antarctic will not be pleasant.

_(Tommy's sleeping form; he deserves happiness, away from governments and tyrants and death, even if it means Wilbur must confront his twin.)_

They leave early the next day.

\--- 

Wilbur holds onto his memories desperately, precious gems on a cracked crown, because in moments like this it feels easy to slip away again - give in to the cold press of snow and turquoise skies over head, lose yourself to the echo of doubt forever resonating. 

Tommy hasn't spoken to him since their journey has started.

_(There's a desperation there, and Wilbur knows, but he's not ready to face it yet, the irreversible momentum of change reflecting in his brother's eyes - Wilbur doesn't know Tommy anymore, not in a way that matters.)_

Conflict inevitably arises - to Tommy there're still two Wilburs, two versions in a togetherness he can't quite grasp, sand running through his fingers - oil on water.

Insanity and the smell of gunpowder, the glint of golden buttons and a flag rising into the sky, who are you really, Wilbur? 

It's a question he himself cannot quite answer, because who are you, truly, after all your roles have been played are gone, all aces open on the table - no longer a wild card, but unpredictable in your predictability; odd one out in a world made for those fitting in.

Duality, solidarity, who are you really, Wilbur? 

_(Conflict, inevitability. A cold evening in the ice.)_

"It's fuckin cold", Tommy mutters to no one in particular.

The sun sets the ice in front of Wilbur ablaze, and he thinks that if they keep on pushing, they'll reach Technoblade's house before noon the next day - just a few more miles, and they could rest then.

Tubbo stays silent.

And suddenly it's easy to see that Tommy is testing him, seeing how annoying he can be before Wilbur will- 

Well, whatever Tommy's expecting, he does not intend to give it to him.

"Right. Let's rest here then, and we'll just have to walk a little longer tomorrow. Tubbo, do you still have some wood?"

Tubbo answers by dropping down onto the ground and arranging the leftover wood into a neat little campfire, big enough for them to warm themselves up, but small enough to not be spotted from miles away. 

"Tommy, can you hand me the flint and steel?", Wilbur asks tentatively- more often than not Tommy just ignores him, and Tubbo has to ask for items - it's a fragile arrangement, and Wilbur has put his whole weight on the fractured ice, hoping it doesn't break.

Tommy doesn't answer, but wordlessly produces a flint and steel from his pockets and hands it to Wilbur, before turning back to Tubbo, who's campfire seems to be good to go.

Wilbur kneels over the wood, and slams the two rocks in his hand together, producing a small spark- 

_-and it feels so good, the heat surrounding him, waves of roaring flames washing over the nation he'd built, that would now be forever his and his charred, unfeeling fingertips light up with the promise of more destruction-_

There's a smile growing on Wilbur's face, and before he's realized it, he's started laughing and _the fuses are ignited, in a room buried beneath a podium and a celebrating crowd, he's crowned himself king through blood and fire-_

The present forces its way back into his mind with heaving sobs and two teenagers _(you swore to protect them!)_ kneeling in the snow, hopelessly trying to shield themselves from the echo of an insanity that had taken everything from them.

"Oh my god", Wilbur whispers, "Oh my god, Tommy, I'm so sorry, it's okay, it's gonna be okay-" 

"No Wilbur, it fucking isn't okay!" 

Tommy's rage melts the snow at his feet, reminiscent of an explosion, burn scars of old tearing at his mind - fire's glow on his face and hot tears spilled on his shirt, Icarus yet again, melted by the sun. 

"It isn't fucking okay! My dead fucking brother just came back, and suddenly we're having a fun family roadtrip to our father's house?! Do you even know what you're- you've fucking done! Don't think you're better than them because you haven't outright tried to kill me, Wilbur! And that's so fucked up, don't you think?! You're the only one in this godforsaken family that hasn't tried to _murder_ me, but you still fucked me over! So no, it isn't okay!' 

Duality, duality - something in Wilbur pulls away at the mention of hurting his brother, and he forces it to watch the breakdown unfold.

_Your fault, your fault_ , a memory singsongs deep within his ribcage, echoing into his throat and threatening to choke - _look at your masterpiece, Wilbur, look at what you've created. Are you proud? Are you_ **_proud?_ **

Villains, good or bad, black and white, a world in monochrome - Wilbur has done wrong, he knows, and as such he shall repent, undeserving of forgiveness but willing to give himself up for the thought of redemption.

"Tommy-"

"Don't you fucking _dare_ 'Tommy' me!", his brother spits, and the venom tears something apart irreversibly.

"Tommy- I- Fuck, I know I hurt you worse than I ever had the right to, and I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry because you're my brother and I love you! I took your home and your friends and your brother from you and nothing can remedy that, but I want you to know nothing I said back then I could ever mean. You're the most wonderful person I know, and you deserve way more than anyone could ever give, and so much better than what you've gotten here. You may not believe me now, but I hope I can prove it with my actions: I'm so, so fucking sorry." 

Tommy blinks. That… wasn't supposed to happen. People don't apologize, don't admit they were wrong, and he silently pushes the vision of Wilbur running his sword through him from his mind. 

Forgiveness.

_(Hard, but not impossible. Bonds will be mended, bridges rebuilt. No inferno can rage forever.)_

"I hate you", Tommy says when he buries himself in his brother's embrace for a second time, "I hate you so much, why don't you just hate me, I deserve it" 

Wilbur rubs circles into his back, not allowing his embrace to become a grave.

_(There is something immortal in the meeting of warm skin.)_

"You deserve to be loved, Tommy. You are more than deserving of happiness, and I could never hate you." 

_(The only one in my family who hasn't tried to kill me. Wilbur feels the burning hatred of a child raised for war turn his veins a boiling red, and knows one thing with universal clarity: Philza will pay.)_

\---

Death in neon, life in monochrome.

Tommy's used to it in a way Wilbur dreads.

Yet beyond pantheon and the fall of home, there lies a place they might've called home, once, in a memory now tainted by a deadly chrome.

Sticks and stone and the fall of Rome - a cottage in the middle of the snow, beacon of life in a landscape made of death. 

Tommy and Tubbo trail behind him, hesitation echoed by crunching snow, and Wilbur thinks of firework deaths and the betrayal of family.

He has to knock on the door.

Standing before the wood, as a stone wall and hastily written signs, and raising his hand, as reaching for a button- 

Wilbur knocks.

Now, there are a few things Wilbur knows about his twin, almost as intimately as he knows himself.

First, Technoblade never lets his guard down. It's a fact learned by failed childhood pranks and sticky fingers, humid summer air and the sound of laughter.

Secondly, Techno does not take off his armour unless he feels completely safe, a fact learned by ice fractals blooming on windows and exhausted conversations after wars - coming of age in the midst of a world tearing itself apart.

And lastly, Techno first and foremost cares about himself. He's a warrior, a death bringer made from iron and steel, and no sepia memories can ever carve the death of Tubbo from Wilbur's mind.

Technoblade is ruthless and war mongering and brutal. 

_(And Technoblade is a person, somewhere beneath all of it.)_

Earth does break the things we make, like countries and families. Earth does defy all you think you know, so when Wilbur stares into the bloody red miasma of his brother's eyes, only dressed in a light white shirt, he knows his twin is nothing but a stranger now.

\--- 

"Wilbur?" 

The air turns stagnant. Wilbur senses a hopefulness somewhere in there, a desperate need to cling to the past - _sticky fingers and humid air_ \- but disregards it. 

_(Remember and resist. The past can never touch the present.)_

"Didn't Phil tell you?", Wilbur asks. He thinks his voice sounds a little monotone, almost tone deaf to the melody unfolding around him; but Wilbur is done with great symphonies. There's only a few last notes left to write.

_(Did he tell you, golden child, chosen one? Did he tell you, blood god, destroyer of dreams? Or did he leave you in the dark as he left us, scrambling for light?)_

"No, he did. I just didn't think… you'd want to come here." 

Wilbur fights the urge to scoff - want or not, what's it matter now? He didn't _want_ to live. He didn't _want_

to be back, but he needed to be, for Tommy and all the children he'd led into war, for the dream of emancipation and endless youth.

"I'm not here because I wanted to be, Technoblade. I'm here for them."

He sidesteps to reveal Tommy and Tubbo, the child president standing in front of his friend, a spark of defiance in his eyes - don't you dare touch him, his strained pose speaks, don't you dare hurt my friend.

Something in Techno's gaze hardens, and he turns back to Wilbur.

"Seriously? You-" 

"We're not having this conversation without Phil. Go, get him! I know he's in your little cottage." 

Fire, venom, explosions. Channeling anger into a single sentence - Techno leaves almost immediately.

"Wilbur!" 

Phil seems almost delighted, until he sees the boiling rage in his son's eyes, as a volcano exploding into thousands of molten rocks, or the ocean tearing down the land - an endless cycle of violent repetition, starting and ending here. 

Wilbur breathes, sharpens his words with whetstone and finally spits a venomous: "How dare you" at Phil's feet, rejoicing at the flinch it elicits from his father.

No one answers. The air turns crystalline around them, breaths reflected back as little white clouds in the endlessness of the tundra.

"How fucking dare you. You're a hypocrite, Phil, and you know it.What's all this talk about terrorism then, huh? Only took the golden child to convince you to blow up the ONLY place your other child ever felt safe?"

Wilbur takes a deep breath.

"You hated me for what I did, and now you have the guts to do the exact same thing ten times worse and call it _justified_?!"

"Wilbur-", Phil tries to cut in, but Wilbur shoots him a glare.

"No, fuck you Phil. What were you doing while your youngest son was off getting literally _abused_ in exile? Building a little cozy fucking cottage with Technoblade? Planning to overthrow the government run by a _seventeen year old_? You were supposed to be there for him, not ruin his entire life!" 

Shocked silence. Snow gathers on Wilbur's eyelashes, and he angrily wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his old coat, surprised after it comes away wet - he must've started crying at some point, and a few drops of salty water have frozen on his cheeks, turning his face into a harshly carved silhouette of the kind man he used to be.

"Abused?", Phil whispers quietly, "I didn't…." 

"Oh, you didn't know? Well, what did you expect? Was Tommy supposed to go prancing around, telling everyone about his extremely traumatic experience?! You were supposed to notice that there's something wrong! You're his fucking dad!" 

"I took care of him!", Techno steps in, red eyes brimming with the rage of age-old gods, "And he went and betrayed me! He didn't care about anything I did for him!" 

Wilbur takes a deep, sharp breath - the air cuts into his lungs like razors, and blood spills from his heart at the prospect of fighting Techno. He throws a curious look over his shoulder at Tommy, to see the boy slumped over, drained by the fight. He has to end this, and quickly.

"Don't you dare talk to me of betrayal, _Technoblade._ What were you expecting? You took Tommy in under the prospect of _using him_ to destroy L'Manberg, the only memory he still had of his dead fucking brother! He didn't even betray you for L'Manberg, he chose Tubbo because he saw himself become the very person he didn't want to be!", Wilbur's voice has lowered to a dangerous snarl, and the cold has turned his posture into a frigid thing - the general of an army long gone, reigning over a country of ash. 

"I was clear about my intentions from the get-go! Power corrupts, really, you should know that, Wilbur!" 

"Your anarchy is nothing but a weak excuse to start wars, Techno. Power corrupts? Well, you're the prime fucking example: Anarchy is supposed to he about equality, but you're the most powerful person on the server and you insist on destroying the land of people much weaker than you? Can't you see you're the very enabler of the tyranny you seek to destroy?"

Perfect silence envelops the air, only disturbed by Wilbur's heaving breaths - anger boils, and the snow keeps falling.

"And being clear on your intentions does not make those intentions good! You used your endless power to join forces with the actual tyrant of this server, abuser of your brother, to tear down a government that posed NO threat to you whatsoever! And don't even try to say you didn't know what Dream did to Tommy. I know you're not stupid, Techno." 

Something akin to realization dawns in Techno's eyes with a softening motion.

"I- I'm so sorry.", he whispers, and the monotony of his voice wavers for just a second.

Wilbur looks over his shoulder, at Tommy.

"Don't say that to me. Say it to him. C'mon, Tubbo, let's give them some space."

\---

Arctic fractals falling apart under his boots and cool air on his face, Wilbur takes a breath and finally starts to believe things will get better.

There's no certainty in healing, no rhyme or reason in progress, but the air is getting clearer and his heart a little lighter and he knows they will do this.

And staring into mismatched heterochromic eyes, duality as a vision of colour in a haze of snow, Wilbur feels the weight of the world tumble off his shoulders, into the hardening ice at his feet.

"Ranboo!", Tubbo screams, delighted and his childish joy makes Wilbur grin - this is what it's supposed to be like, life, bursts of energy and excitement over nothing and everything at the same time. 

"Oh, hello Tubbo and Gh- Wilbur?"

"The one and only!", Wilbur smiles at Ranboo's incredulous look, "It's a long story, but I'm sure Tubbo will tell you all about it once we get going."

"Wait, hold on a second. Get going? Going where? I've only just moved in here!"

Wilbur eyes the little shack Ranboo calls his home, a bed and a chest, roof bowing under the weight of snow, and thinks.

"They're making you live in the shack?" 

"No, no of course not! I just chose to live here because I didn't want to… y'know… intrude…", Ranbok smiles sheepishly, and Wilbur feels his face split into a grin; this kid's ridiculous.

"Well, regardless, Tommy, Tubbo and I are moving, and those two thought you'd maybe like to come along! I don't know how much you heard of our argument-" 

Ranboo stiffens, blanching.

Ah.

"I'm sorry, Wilbur, I promise I didn't mean to listen in it's just with my hybrid senses and all-" 

Wilbur waves him off, smiling gently.

"It's fine. We just thought it may be in your best interest to get away from Phil and Techno for a while. They can be a little… much, at times. Of course we're not forcing you, but the offer stands."

Ranboo turns to face his shack, his chest and the almost finished axe, memories of a life not yet lived, releases a small, shaky breath into the freezing air, and forces as much resolution into his voice as possible. 

"Okay. I'll come with you." 

\---

When they round the corner again, Tommy's crying into Phil's shirt, with Techno patting him on the back awkwardly.

It's not perfect, but it's a start - the beginning of a family learning how to trust again, the end of wars fought over the past - a brighter future awaits, and Wilbur lets the blinding light of the sun hit his face. 

Things are getting better. 

_(Forgiveness starts small. Tommy smiles at Technoblade and not everything is forgiven, but there's a chance at happiness, now, a chance at peace.)_

Ranboo hands Techno the axe, and no one protests when he announces he'll be leaving. 

They leave the Arctic on two of Techno's horses, the sun illuminating their fading forms in the luminous light of redemption - the wind tearing through their hair; a goodbye to the past.

_(Somewhere far away, a house stands abandoned. Pictures coated in dust and rooms haphazardly covered in posters, remnants of youth splattered on the walls, a single pink blossom pushes its way out of the bud. Redemption, forgiveness. Nature heals, and so does a family.)_

\---

_"You did good", a ghostly whisper breathes into your ear, melancholic and small, "You did wonderfully. Don't give up now, remember and live, for all the times we've failed."_

_"For all the times we've failed.", a chorus of voices echo into the abyss of your thoughts, dark meandering smoke curling around their forms._

_You smile._

_For all the times you've lost, there'll be a thousand where you've won, and the past will finally rest._

_Live. Breathe. Remember. Resist._

\--- 

"Where to now, Wilbur?"

"That's not my decision to make, Tubbo. The world's all yours now. Pick a place, and we'll go." 

"I think…. there's still business to take care of in L'Manberg…." 

"..."

"Good, L'Manberg it is." 

\---

It goes like this - the library of Alexandria burns brightly in the civil war, and the world grieves for knowledge lost, history erased.

It goes like this - L'Manberg burns, and no one mourns its fall, the subsequent death of a dream borne from bloodshed and trampled mud, and no one stops to wonder where the spirit of revolution has gone.

It goes like this - Niki burns the L'Mantree and smiles all the while, the promise of treacherous words dripping from her lips like honey. 

Revolution, rebellion, resistance; words spit by scowling mouths and bitter eyes turned sweet by pink hair and flaming hatred. Niki realizes her damnation and hates those who let the world rot, hates those that took her friend away from her, hates and hates and doesn't realize how she's turning into Wilbur, same tear tracks burning on her cheeks and desperate steps to a rhythm she's long since lost.

Niki hates Tommy for taking everything away.

And she will make sure he pays.

_(Selfish, selfish, the voices spit, and she shatters the music disk she holds into pieces. Selfish. Insanity is blindness, in a way, because Niki does not realize she's just the same.)_

\--- 

Cliffs made of mist and darkened stone like blood, Wilbur wanders L'Manberg as a spectre yet again.

Tommy, Tubbo and Ranboo are off somewhere, collecting what's left of their existence and saying their final goodbyes.

_(Unfinished symphonies. A last few notes. The audience cheers, and it's over.)_

His footsteps devour the last remnants of his nation in greedy, unchewed strides and all is split in two yet again - delicately tightened fists and the ashen taste of betrayal, Wilbur allows himself to grieve for dreams lost. 

Pink flashes in his periphery, and something aches beneath his ribs, flutters against the cage - there's something he's forgotten, something crucial to be found in the valley of ash, yet his mind offers only the echo of insanity. 

A sword is pointed at his throat.

Ah.

"Who are you?", a voice speaks, and the tendrils of anger snake around his throat and desperately try to push under his skin, tear through muscle and bone in a search for blood, blood. 

It needs to be shed, the blade sings, no revolution becomes successful through peace, don't you know? Don't you? 

"Niki? It's me, Wilbur." 

The sword shakes, and Wilbur can feel the tremor of Niki's grief cut into his throat, red hot pain searing through his body. 

Niki laughs, not the gentle sound of a summer's breeze, but guttural and broken and so filled with this new form of suffering no words could shake her.

"Oh, have I finally gone completely insane? You're not _real_." 

Gently, Wilbur takes her hand, and flinches at the coldness of her skin - summer time has passed now, and the winter shall wreck all homes and fields, the hopelessness of a child born to sunshine watching the death of their beloved star.

And Niki doesn't quite let her guard down, but she smiles - simple and true, in a way only she can.

"You're back!" 

Eyes brimming with tears and a gentle smile, as the day after war, flag rising into the sunset. 

"Finally, someone will be able to talk sense into Tommy!" 

Wilbur blinks. Something heavy settles in his gut, iron weight and cold - the steel of his father's blade, echoed back by craters and friends turning into strangers.

"Talk some sense… into Tommy?", he whispers and hates how tiny his voice sounds, in the eye of his own destruction. 

"Well, of course. He's the reason all of the conflict on this server is even _happening_. Him, and those stupid disks he cares so much about. Tommy's selfish, and he's no better than Dream, and that's why he needs to be taken care of."

_(No better than Dream. Cobblestone towers and whispered deceit, the dull blue eyes of his brother and smell of gunpowder - no better than Dream?)_

"Niki, you don't know what you're talking about. Tommy's a child, a child I made march in my battalion, a child that's been so traumatized by all the lessons this server has taught him with blood and steel, he doesn't know how to solve conflicts peacefully anymore! Dream abused him, Niki, almost drove him to suicide and you want to tell me they're the same?!"

There's shock in the lines of her face, the edge of a realization - Niki pushes it back down.

"You died for this nation Wilbur, and look what he did to it! This- this is all his fault!" 

There are tears running down her cheeks and fire in her eyes - untouchable, in that moment, hands so unused to tenderness she does not try to wipe away her tears.

Wilbur sighs, and gently cups her cheeks.

"Niki, I didn't die for L'Manberg. I died so Tommy could finally be a child again, after all the wars I put him through. It's my fault really, all of this, and I'm sorry for leaving you. I know my death was not fair to you, and I should never have burdened you with trying to keep my dying ideals alive. It's fine, you tried your best. But it's not Tommy's fault, it's mine." 

Niki does not try to resist the hug Wilbur pulls her in.

She is no longer that woman with the blue eyes, who once had woven a new country's flag, no longer the scent of cake and freshly cut grass, no longer the echo of birdsong and laughter, but also that country's property no longer. 

She is like loosened hair, like pouring rain, on the verge of falling but not yet gone.

Wilbur pulls her from the edge - certain, gentle, and without impatience - and hope blooms again.

_(Niki has not forgotten how to be gentle, what it's like to be loved. It only takes a nudge in the right direction, and she is facing the rising sun again. And this time, Orpheus does not turn around.)_

\---

There's a letter on the doorstep, unopened and aching, signed with a single letter; _Come and meet me_ , it reads, _come and meet me and we'll talk_.

Wilbur's seen it coming, dreaded this conversation - signed by _F._

(His son. Unfinished symphonies. Finally coming to understand.)

\---

Wilbur settles down next to Fundy.

His son watches the ambers of the fire flick gently against the cold earth, and Wilbur lets him enjoy this moment of rest: There's a hard conversation to come, after all, and the encouraging glint of the fire soothes not just his son's worries. 

"Fundy", Wilbur says.

"Wilbur", his son responds.

And Wilbur doesn't know where to start- he fumbles over his words, leaving an aching emptiness of sound where there should be apologies, silence where there should be promises.

Instead, he nods to his guitar.

"Would you like to hear a song?" 

Fundy's eyes glisten wetly against the fire's glow, and he nods hesitantly, fox ears twitching with rapid fire thoughts.

_Well then,_ Wilbur thinks. And words have always come to him naturally, haven't they? It's like channeling a river's flow, the steady beating of the earth's heart - deep and unchangeable and sacred. Words are magical in that they are mundane, healing and hurting and fermenting the reality in their simple sounds.

Now, they shall serve as a reminder.

_"The roads are my home, horizon's my target",_ Wilbur starts, voice a little rough - there's only one song he sang while he was dead, only one thing to remember with fondness - but that place is gone and those words lost, for better or for worse. Now, he who has control over the present has control over the past: This song, in its simplicity, will carry what needs to be said through wind and clouds and frozen mountain tops, will resonate in the heart of his son and once again plant a seed of hope.

_(Just as he did many years ago, the promise of a special place still lying heavily on his tongue)_

But it's a different time. A different Wilbur. 

_(And hopefully, that will be enough.)_

Fundy perks up slightly at the soft singing, remembering the days of a childhood running through rivers and forests with a gentle, smiling woman, being sung to sleep by his father and waking to a brilliant new day every morning - the simple innocence of existing in a child's utopia.

But Fundy also knows this song doesn't end happily, as his childhood did not end happily, or anything he did after.

And so he braces for the aching ending that is sure to come.

_"The distance is futile_

_Come on, don't be hasty_

_You'll get that feeling deep inside your bones_

_I'll stay then, for when you need me"_

Fundy's entire being halts for a second.

Little wafts of grey smoke curl into the air - _I'll stay,_ they scream, _I'll stay for when you need me_.

And Fundy? 

Fundy grasps the promise in bleeding hands and feels the light shine into his heart _(blackened and burned but beating, oh beating on still)_ and lets himself be consumed by a different sensation: hope.

When he throws himself into his father's arms, Wilbur catches him, corporeal and weighty and real, no longer the gentle summer's breeze but the currents of a forest river, never daring to freeze even in winter.

And so Fundy clings to his father, and lets his tears pour into his coat - there's still things to talk about, a grand, aching thing to let heal; but for now, the night is new and his father is here, and sometimes that can be enough.

\---

Stone ceilings and early morning lights, messy blankets and the warmth of a family - there's a stanza somewhere in there, Wilbur muses, a pretty line of poetry to mutter into the softness of it all and watch as it sinks into the earth.

There's little bits of songs everywhere, now - Tommy's soft breathing and the sound of the wind, as soft notes of a piano drifting through open windows - and Wilbur tries to pluck them from the air and hold them close to his chest; memories to never be forgotten. 

Tommy wakes with a startled gasp and the memory of tear tracks on his cheeks.

(A familiar melody, in its melancholy, carried through war and peace time with the same certainty.) 

He throws himself into Wilbur's arms, sobbing an incomprehensible mess of words into his brother's shirt, still buried deep in the clutches of his nightmare.

"Dream", Tommy cries, "Dream, I just had the worst nightmare, L'Manberg was gone and- I'm so sorry, Dream-" 

There's poetry somewhere in there too, Tommy clinging to his brother and whispering another's name, threads of the past not quite broken - yet Wilbur cares little for those verses, in the face of his brother's agony.

"Shh Tommy, it's me, Wilbur. We're in your house, far away from Dream. You don't have to apologize for anything. But maybe you want to talk about it?" 

There's a moment of hesitancy, as fragile as a flower's first petal, where Wilbur feels their softened bond run through his fingers like sand - waves hitting the shore and dragging it back into the ocean.

"I don't- I don't know how much you remember about my… exile, since Ghostbur wasn't around a bunch…" 

Reaching for Ghostbur's memories is like walking through fog, cliffs and forests made of mist reaching for the sky as crooked fingers, and in between hushed voices and glimpses of conversations tinted blue - a single golden crown abandoned on the forest floor.

"Tell me however much you want.", Wilbur says earnestly, "I'll understand and love you no matter how much you choose to say." 

Tommy takes a deep breath.

"Dream.. he… Dream was the only one to ever visit, except for Ranboo I guess, and for the longest time I thought he was my friend! And- I know that's pathetic, but he… he was nice to me sometimes, even if he blew up my stuff and told me how you all hated me, and I just… I missed him when he wasn't there. He kept me company, and it made me feel horrible but at least he was there, y'know? The things he said…" 

"What about them, Tommy?", Wilbur asks gently, but Tommy only shakes his head.

_(Cobblestone powers, empty eyes - looking at Phil's sword with longing, not so un-alike, brother's in mind and blood.)_

"Tommy, whatever he said to you - it was never true, and will never be. Everyone here cares about you so, so much. You're not alone, and you'll never be alone again. Dream holds no power here." 

Tommy lets himself be pulled into Wilbur's arms again, breathes in the familiar scent of his brother, so different from the mud and rain and blood of Logstedshire, bathed in the familiarity of an early morning.

_(I wash my hands in innocence, Pilatus had said, and Wilbur wraps his arms around his brother and feels the tendrils of forgiveness snake around his hands. He is not solely responsible for the death of his brother, and that realization settles in his heart with blooming finality.)_

\---

Wilbur is a creature made of salt water and wings. Harbinger of fate, a being carved from fury of centuries passed - blood wells up among the roots of his newfound body, and the river of souls cannot trap him in the world of the dead.

When he breathes, the air is full of smoke. He's one big, terrifying thing, as obsidian walls and the promise of emancipation or the colour of TNT, hissing and about to explode.

But most of all, Wilbur is caring.

(And so, so very sick of fighting.) 

Yet revolution waits for no man, and war knows no mercy - there, where no soldier shall sleep Wilbur will rise yet again, he who went to hell and came back, to protect what is dear.

For Tommy, the world shall burn.

For Tommy, he'll go to war one last time.

(But not all battles are won alone, little tin soldier, and sometimes what you seek to protect must stand up for itself.) 

\---

In the end, there's Tubbo and Wilbur and Tommy on top of the world, and they are quiet. 

No explosions mark their fight, no symphony of chaos echoes their struggles into the world - the cliffside rolls off into thrashing waves, and the past is nothing but a cemetery.

Everything they cared about has burned.

(Theseus falls off a cliff, somewhere, alone and betrayed. Tommy stands in front of two brothers, and refuses to turn into the role carved out for him.)

Dream stands alone, the sun king, abandoned by all that might've been precious once; alone in absolute power, headed for the guillotine of his own making.

And on an evening centuries ago, Dream fires his bow - it strikes Tommy right between the ribs.

And now, he opens his mouth to speak.

"Tommy", he smiles, "Didn't think you'd come. I was so sad, y'know? I really thought we were friends, and you just left!" 

Tommy shifts - determined, scared, in the face of battle nothing but synonymous, and the perfect little soldier does not cower. 

"Shut up, you manipulative bitch! I don't fucking care about you, and you have no power over me." 

Dream laughs, the clapping of thunder in the distance, and holds up a disk - purple and white, reflecting the darkened skies back at Tommy; his disk.

Tommy takes a deep breath, and gives Tubbo a little nod - the other pulls out his crossbow, and aims for Dream's hand.

The arrow hits, and he drops the disk with a pained sound- 

Tommy makes a run for it, and grabs the disk- 

Dream reaches for his axe-

There's a great, resonating crack. The disk shatters in Tommy's grip, and he viciously stomps on the pieces dropped to the floor, grinding the music into dust.

"Well, what about that, bitch boy! Nothing to say now, ey?" 

Tubbo has his sword pointed at Dream's throat and a sickeningly sweet smile on his lips, carved deep into the exhausted lines of his face.

"Now, Dream. If you'd be so kind, please drop your fuckin' items in the pit.", Tommy laughs something victorious, and Dream? 

Dream empties his pockets, and the world keeps on spinning and a tyrant falls to two kids, united by their scars, now finally healing.

The TNT is lit, the precious gear turned to dust; victory, as two friends on a cliffside and a tyrant on his knees, Nike descending and a symphony ended, finality in happiness.

(But things are never that easy, are they?) 

The earth starts shaking beneath their feet, and Tommy and Tubbo scramble back to hide behind Wilbur, who finally steps onto the stage to fight Dream.

"Did you think I wouldn't know? That I wouldn't see what you were doing, what you were taking from my _brothers_? I'm not an idiot, Dream, and you're not as smart as you think." 

Dream laughs, and the wind carries the echoing sound over the steep cliffside, to be drowned in the ocean.

"Oh yeah, Wilbur. Well, what did you do while I tore your country apart, destroyed your little, pathetic family? You did nothing. And you will continue to do nothing. I am the god of this world, Wilbur, and your life means nothing to me!" 

As if on cue, roaring thunder punctures Dreams's words - yellowed clouds as halos around his head.

Wilbur scoffs. The sea thrashes beyond the cliffs, and with the smell of salt and water he feels the power of centuries at his fingertips, the greatness of history passed - Odysseus comes home, in the end, and Poseidon's tidal wave of fury does not catch up to him.

And what's challenging gods to the son of the Angel of Death, the brother of the Blood God, but simple fun? 

Wilbur let's the rumble of the ocean shake through him as laughter and watches the sun settle behind him; Dream has always had the fatal flaw of underestimating those he perceived as weak, even weapon less as he is.

"Oh Dream, what a god you are! It's pathetic, really, how you cling on to power as if you hadn't lost _everything important to you_. No one cares, Dream!" 

Wilbur pauses, and nature holds its breath with him - this is his symphony, his crescendo to reach, requiem to sing not for himself, but the one calling himself god in a world full of beings greater than him.

"I think I should tell you a story. There's a reason they call me Wilbur Soot, you know. Once upon a time, there was a village - lovely people, really, if they weren't so damn prejudiced. Phil always hid his wings when we got there and I never understood why, until Techno went there to buy a new sword and didn't come back. They had locked him in a cage in the town square, Dream. And you know what I did? I locked them in their houses and burned them to the ground. That village is nothing but _ash_ now, Dream, and you think I'll let you get away with abusing my brother for _months?_ Think again. Usually, I'd ask you what you're afraid of now, Dream. But I think I know already." 

_(Power. Someone stronger than you. Resistance. Predictable as always.)_

Wilbur takes a deep breath, and the ocean roars greedily - above him, the thunder clouds have gathered in the form of a twisted, bleeding smile.

He thinks of Tommy and Tubbo and Techno and L'Manberg, the last notes of a symphony about to be finished- 

Wilbur doesn't scream when the lightning strikes him, veins illuminated in the perfect purple of a kaleidoscopic haze, lichtenberg figure cut against the monochrome skylight.

He doesn't scream when the lightning sucks his life force out of him, payment for calling on the gods so early, hair turning the striking white of a new dawn's snowfall interspersed with the uncertain blue of grief. 

The last thing Dream sees are a pair of glowing eyes and the glimmer of a newly sharpened knife.

"Blood for the blood god", Wilbur whispers, and rejoices at the feeling of cutting through his opponent's throat. 

Dreams eyes widen minutely- 

And then the ocean is swallowing him up, gnashing and moaning. 

\---

_Spread your wings and fly high, Icarus, for now you are free._

\---

There's a long silence after Dream's death.

It warps and morphs the lands into something cold and impenetrable, echoing the silent demise of their leader into eternity.

Nobody knows how long it will take for him to respawn.

Wilbur, Tommy, Tubbo and Ranboo stand above the sizzling crater of the land they'd all called a home once, during revolutions and wars and betrayals, the place that turned its back on them and shattered their innocence with accusations of treachery.

Wilbur hands Tommy a disk, cracked and chipped away by years of fighting and destruction, found in between sea shells and hardened glass on a beach, memorial of the death of a dictator.

_'Cat'_ is hastily scratched onto it.

Tommy fixes it with an unbelieving stare, and turns it over in his hands. It's lighter than he remembered, the music he was so willing to sacrifice everything for, the token of friendship tying him to Tubbo forevermore- 

_(He glances at Tubbo. The other smiles, and takes Tommy's hand in his own.)_

-Nothing but a useless bit of plastic, too warped by his perceptions to matter. Tommy tosses it into the smoking crater, and feels the weight fall of his shoulders.

Sisyphos pushes the boulder up the mountain.

This time, he shall not fall.

The disk clatters into the abyss with dissonance, and Wilbur feels the single tune chord strike something deep within his soul, breath coming out in little puffs of mist like cigarette smoke.

"Bye L'Manberg.", he says quietly. "Bye, L'Manberg." 

Tommy joins in soon after, and then the cliffside lights up with everyone's voices, gently turning the stagnant air into a humming, breathing thing- the requiem of a nation, symphony finished at last. 

Wilbur takes Tommy's hand, and Ranboo holds on to Tubbo and they leave, simple as that.

The fog swallows them up in seconds.

\---

_You are trying to use your hands kindly again._

_It's hard, but you still try._

\---

The boys pick a direction, and Wilbur follows.

How it's meant to be yet never was, this moment in between two realities; past and future, L'Manberg and the green plains awaiting - Wilbur not as a leader but a follower, in the footsteps of those he swore to protect.

There's a certain melancholy in there, to be a wanderer, wandering with the roads as a home and the horizon as a target; a wholeness in complete freedom.

_I'll put down my roots when I'm dead_ , Wilbur had said once, and he had meant it.

Now, he who went to hell and came back looks onto the flower forest in front of him, three boys already laying the foundations of a cottage, and thinks _I'm ready._

\---

Tommy and Tubbo talk a lot, in the first few months - there's fights and reconciliations, memories of exiles and nations built and lost, as two boys start to learn to be friends again.

Ranboo starts to rely less heavily on the memory book; memories stick better, in the warm summer's air, when there's no one around to taint them, and although the shadow of Dream's smiling face still haunts the edges of words unspoken, the puppeteer's grip on the strings grows weaker with every sunset. 

Soon, they all sit on the little cliffside next to their house, and realize that this is what healing feels like.

\--- 

Tubbo slams the door shut with enough force to rattle the frame, and Wilbur jumps slightly, quickly eyeing Tubbo to make sure he's okay.

"Wilbur, look what I found!"

On his shoulder sits a red parrot, too small to be grown, with its wing twisted a bit awkwardly. 

Wilbur sighs. He knows where this is going.

"Can we keep him Wilbur? Wilby? Please?", Tubbo pleads, and Wilbur, who has long since admitted defeat, only nods. 

"What're you going to name him?"

Tubbo seems to think for a second, before clapping with a sudden realization.

"Twix! I'll call him Twix!" 

\--- 

The green leaves of summer are turning a bright red by the time Twix flies for the first time.

Tubbo runs laps along the fence of the house, a red flash settling brightly behind him, and he cheers jubilantly with each flap of the parrot's wings - victories, as flight and the sound of laughter, no longer synonymous with war.

Somewhere off to the side, Tommy chooses to join into the fun, and soon he's chasing a breathlessly laughing Tubbo around the garden. 

Youth glimmers brilliantly in those moments, and Wilbur tries to internalise it all - rustling leaves and a salty breeze, breathless laughter and the sound of cheering, a polaroid picture of perfection captured by eyes no longer accustomed to bloodshed. 

When the sense of greatness has passed, Wilbur joins Ranboo in trying to hit Tommy with chestnuts whenever he's running past and laughing brightly whenever they miss.

Breathing comes easy now, as does life.

The march has ended, a home has been found.

Finally, they settle. 

\--- 

Ranboo's birthday comes around some few weeks before winter and Wilbur worries about perfection - how do you pay back saving a brother? How do you apologize for ruining a life not yet even started? 

In the end, he bakes a cake. It's an uneven, asymmetrical thing that Tommy teases him relentlessly for, but the tears that fill Ranboo's eyes when he sees it are enough proof of its worth.

Wilbur also hands him a necklace, a single green crystalline piece of glass attached to it - inside, a bit of obsidian.

"So you can calm yourself if you ever panic", Wilbur explains, all too familiar with the stiffening quiet of panic rooms and signs with incomprehensible scribbles tearing apart the walls.

They spend the rest of the day at the beach, softly breathing in the finality of their new home and hope for the months yet to come. 

A single lantern is released into the sky that night, and with it, the dreams of a newfound family.

\--- 

With the first snowfall, two letters arrive.

Bearing the sigil of the Antarctic Empire, one contains both happy birthday wishes to Ranboo, as well as a segment dedicated entirely to Tommy: 

_I'm sorry,_ the letters sing, _I'm sorry for leaving you behind, for neglecting your needs and taking what's most important to you. I know those actions cannot be reversed, but I want to be better, for you and for Wilbur._

_Please forgive me,_ the letters dance, _for not understanding you and destroying the only home you've ever had. I'm sorry for not communicating properly, and forcing you into the role of a hero you never wanted to be. I think I can be better, and one day, we will be the family we were supposed to be._

Wilbur watches his little brother tear up, watery smile pushing through the rain as the sun through rainfall, immediately searching for a feather to write back.

More letters will come, and the division of time shall watch itself crumble in the face of a dedication so great it will never waver - they must be a family again.

The second letter is far messier, and Fundy's looping handwriting spills out onto the paper as a confession and accusation at the same time - Wilbur reaches for the love that's still left in his response, and a relationship rekindles from miles away.

\--- 

Centuries pass in weeks, and although they've all aged far beyond their years, the snow pushes them all outside of the house.

There's a snowball fight that Ranboo and Tubbo win, although Tommy still claims that Ranboo's height alone should be considered cheating; "He can see over our wall! That's just not fair!", but eventually comes to the conclusion that no immediate action can be taken against it, so the discussion dies down.

An ugly snowman is built, and Wilbur laughs when his three brothers try to bury him with snow because he kept knocking it over. 

It's easy to be happy, when the whole world is quiet and soft, and those he now considers family stay pressed close to him, twin smiles etched into their faces and cheeks burning red with the cold. 

It's easy to forget not all trouble has quite passed yet.

(Sometimes, Tommy wanders a little too close to the cliff. The thrashing waves reflect back at Wilbur in his eyes, and he wonders.) 

\--- 

And then, Christmas Eve rolls around.

\---

Tommy is outside in the snow, staring up at the molten sky.

Wilbur sits next to him and watches the waves lap against the icy shore.

Once, he had been afraid of the currents, the feeling of water flooding his lungs - now he dips his toes into freezing water and laughs at the way it makes him shiver.

"Did it hurt?", Tommy asks, gaze fixated on the falling snow.

"Not really", Wilbur answers. "It was kind of… Nice, actually. I just... let it all go." 

Tommy nods. Something in his gaze hardens - determination mixed with despondency.

"But it also hurt so, so much. I- I couldn't remember anything, and I wasn't who I was supposed to be and I missed this-" he gestures at the snow, at Tommy, "So much. Everything hurt all the time because I couldn't be _me_ , and I couldn't help you or Techno or Phil, I couldn't do anything. I was hopeless. Ghostbur just wanted to rest too, in the end." 

Next to him, Tommy has gone very still.

Slowly, with enough time for him to move away, Wilbur wraps Tommy in his arms.

"I'm so sorry", he whispers, and at once, the spell is broken.

Tommy sobs something broken into Wilbur's coat, but when he meets his brother's eyes again, it's with a careful smile.

"We'll be okay", Wilbur says, "We'll be okay." 

Inside, Tubbo and Ranboo are preparing dinner, baking and singing along to a lighthearted song, bumping into each other while trying to dance in the tiny kitchen.

A thousand blocks away, Techno and Phil are finishing up their renovations - four new rooms, for four guests sure to come.

And in a dimly lit bakery, Wilbur's son leans against his friend's shoulder as they watch the moon rise into the sky - laughing and smiling brighter than the glimmering stars. On the desk; a letter, half written and almost sent: _Hey dad,_ it reads, _I forgive you._

"We'll be okay", Wilbur says, and the stars sing it back.

Tommy leans against his brother, and lets some of his pain escape into the darkening sky. Aries shines down on him still, and he tests the words on his tongue.

"We'll be okay. I'll be okay." 

And it almost, almost feels like it has to be true.

Wilbur carries him back into the little cottage, and the yellow light from inside illuminates their footprints in the snow for a few seconds before the door falls shut, and the outside recedes into darkness yet again.

\---

Wilbur had taught his boys how to fight and live and _survive_ , in a world that will try to hurt them forevermore. He taught them words yet reached for weapons, declared peace in turmoil, watched nations rise and fall in his breath with a smile. 

He taught them aggression, violence. He taught them war.

And now, he shall teach them peace.

**Author's Note:**

> WOOO WE'RE DONE!! PREPARE FOR SOME LONG NOTES!!  
> MH FIRST STORY OF 2021 AND WE'RE STARTING OFF STRONG: 12K WORDS!  
> around this time last year, i wrote my first mcyt fanfic on tumblr titled "the techno effect". if u were ever big into mcytblr you might have read it skgdhsks  
> it's really interesting to see how far i've come with my writing, but also how far the ccs have come - i still can't quite believe tommy's the biggest streamer on twitch,,,, 
> 
> here's some more general stuff i have to get out: 
> 
> on this fic; i'm not going to say i came up with the "wilbur gets resurrected and becomes protective over tommy" prompt, but i like to think i put my own little spin on it! the timeline of this fic is quite busted in the beginning, put i personally like to blame that on the fact that wilbur did just get resurrected - time would be a little wonky, i imagine.  
> "osowiec", which is mentioned in the description, is a reference to "the attack of the dead men", a pretty interesting (and real!) ww1 story, you should probably look it up!!  
> this is pretty self-indulgent, ooc in some parts, and basically incomprehensible in others, but i did like how this turned out, so.... here we are! :D 
> 
> on this series; some of you might have realized that i've started a new series called "strawberry lemonade - and things will be okay again". the title is a little obscure, but it stemmed from me having one of those Holy Shit I'm Alive moments while drinking arizona strawberry lemonade iced tea (it tastes really good). so i thought to myself: 'well, why not use this moment of sudden realization for one of my fics!' the 'all will be okay again' part was added a little later, when i decided on what i wanted this series to be about: redemption. quite a broad spectrum, but i wanted to dive a little deeper into the dsmp canon and try to redeem some characters i hold especially close to my heart, or just can't accept as bad people (i'm looking at you phil).  
> the theme of strawberry lemonade kinda prevailed in the sense that all of this redemption stuff is very.... bitter sweet. you know? like strawberries and lemonade? (i'm hilarious, i know.) 
> 
> inspirations; oh god, there's quite a few. 
> 
> this poem about orpheus and eurydice inspired much of niki's and wilbur's scene: https://sites.google.com/site/uteurydice/the-history-of-orpheus-and-eurydice/rilke-s-orpheus-eurydice-hermes 
> 
> this song about ghostbur was actually the reason i started writing this thing, a little writing exercise on ghostbur,,,,, https://youtu.be/BYAdQSVYBHo 
> 
> some lines are directly taken from this mother mother song: https://youtu.be/VWQBPBHcwKE 
> 
> this song by sabaton rlly gave me wilbur vibes but. Idk. https://youtu.be/lj4O63Swowo
> 
> but most of all, tysm to suki on twt for helping me immensely with this work, and inspiring me to keep going with her own wonderful writing! you can find her on ao3 as "kichii" !!  
> also, ty to zea for proofreading!!
> 
> leave kudos and comments for a gentle kiss on the cheek
> 
> follow me on [twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/RANB00TAN)


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